The Jackal of Nar (95 page)

“The warlord wants you to know that he will never lay down his weapons. He promises you he will fight on as long as he can, and that he prays you are right about the serpent Kronin.”

Richius nodded. “I am right. You’ll see, Voris. We just have to hold on.”

Voris got to his feet. “Coala con, Kalak,” he said quietly.

“We are done,” said Dyana. She rose and faced Richius. “The warlord wishes to rest now, Richius. And it is late. We should all go to our chambers.”

“Will he be staying?” Richius asked. “Voris, will I see you in the morning?”

Dyana asked the question, and Voris nodded, shooing them toward the door as he spoke.

“Yes,” said Dyana. “He will be staying. The Narens are getting close to the castle now. He says we will use the castle as our fortress.”

“I understand,” said Richius. He wanted to return to his chamber, to be alone and think on what had been discussed.

The halls of the keep were almost empty now, but he could hear the nervous voices of men and women behind the closed doors lining his way. They were talking about the siege, he knew, and how desperate their predicament had become. Voices seemed so much louder when they were desperate.

When he reached his tiny chamber he found the door closed tight. Had he closed it? He couldn’t remember. Gingerly he pushed it open, wondering if he would catch someone in the
chamber. But there was no one. The candle he’d been reading by had burned down to a waxy nub, and the remnants of his meal still lingered on his bed. But beside the plate, placed in plain view, was a book. It lay open and spine up, as if someone had been reading it and didn’t want to lose their place. And it was vaguely familiar to Richius. He went over to the bed and picked it up, careful to wedge a thumb beneath it to hold the page. It was the book he had seen Pris reading, the collection of Naren poems. Curiously, it was open to the same poem she had wanted him to read. He smiled as he remembered and silently read the poem.

Astonished, he closed the book. This was more than a mere coincidence. This was a message. Someone had left this book for him, and if it was Pris she had done so under another’s direction. And there was only one person who would have made her do it.

Richius moved purposefully from the room, passing through the castle like a ghost. Voris would be expecting him. He steeled his nerves as he went back through the dingy hall to the little, windowless room, pausing just outside its threshold before stepping through. Dumaka Jarra was no longer with Voris. Instead he saw Pris sitting in her father’s lap, giggling while he brushed long braids from her eyes. Voris looked up at Richius expectantly. Richius tossed the book onto the table.

“What’s this?” he asked sharply.

Pris seemed surprised by his action, even hurt. The gleeful grin melted off her face. But Voris barely flinched. He reached out his long arm and retrieved the book from the table, handing it to his daughter.

“What is this, Voris?” repeated Richius firmly. “If you have something to tell me, get it over with.”

Pris jumped to her father’s rescue. “Kalak is angry with Father?” she asked. “Why?”

“Pris, will you tell your father something for me?” asked Richius.

“I am here for that,” said Pris.

“What?”

“I am here to talk for you and Father. Talk. Father has been waiting.”

Richius softened his voice. “Did you leave that book in my room?”

Pris nodded. “For Father. My poem, Kalak. Remember? I showed it to Father when he was angry with me for being with you. Liked it, he did. He asked me to give it to you.” Her eyes narrowed. “Was it wrong?”

“Why did he want me to see it, Pris?” asked Richius. “Do you know?”

Pris frowned, then came up with the most plausible answer her young mind could. “He liked it?”

“Would you ask him for me? Ask him why?”

Pris started to ask but Voris put a finger to her lips and spoke first. His voice was clear and sweet, and he looked deep into her eyes as he spoke, never letting his tone slip above a loving whisper. Pris absorbed it all with puzzlement, clearly missing most of its meaning. She was a genius with language, but the tangle of adult emotions still eluded her. When her father was done, she turned to Richius.

“Kalak knows the pretty woman?” she asked.

“Dyana,” guessed Richius easily. “What about her?”

“You love her.”

Richius didn’t know what to say. His eyes flicked to the warlord then back to the girl. “Yes.”

Pris grinned. “She loves you.”

Oh, Lord,
thought Richius. He fought to quell his growing panic, determined not to back down. But Voris simply stared at him.

“Father says you want each other,” said the girl. She pointed to the book in her hands. “Like in the poem. Love. Good like him and Mother.”

Voris stopped her and carefully explained himself again. Pris
nodded impatiently. Then her face darkened, and Voris put a hand on her head and stroked her hair.

“What’s wrong, Pris?” asked Richius anxiously. “What’s your father saying?”

“Bhapo,” replied Pris. “Father worries.”

“You mean Tharn?”

Voris nudged her, and Pris made an effort to stifle her tears. “Yes. Kalak, do you see?”

“I’m sorry, Pris, I don’t see,” said Richius. He went to them and knelt down on the soft carpet. “Help me, please. I don’t know what you’re saying. What’s your father trying to tell me?”

“He wants you with the pretty woman,” explained Pris feebly. “Before you die. No more time. Bhapo gone.…”

“Easy,” crooned Richius. “It’s all right. I think I know what your father means.” He leaned back, amazed, and stared at Voris. “He’s telling us to be together.”

“Yes, yes,” sniffled Pris. “Together.”

Voris’ big thumb swept a tear from her cheek. The warlord looked at Richius, trying to express himself with his face alone, silently convincing Richius of his meaning. Richius shook his head in disbelief. He leaned forward to comfort the girl, who was crying now for her beloved Tharn and for her father and mother and everyone else she thought would soon be dead. Richius placed a soothing hand on her knee and Pris collapsed into sobs. Voris made no attempt to pull his daughter away.

“Do you know what you’re saying?” Richius asked the warlord. “Have a care. I love her dearly, it’s true. But she is Tharn’s now, and he might yet be alive. There is still a chance, you know.”

“Tharn kyata fa,” said Voris sadly. He drew a circular gesture in the air, signifying time passing or something very far away. “Tharn kiv Lorris.”

“You think Tharn’s with Lorris,” said Richius, understanding the warlord’s words. He shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. You might not believe this, but I hope he’s alive. He’s my friend, like he’s yours. I’m not willing to give up on him yet.” He rose and smiled bleakly at Voris and his weeping daughter. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you for letting us love each other. I will tell Dyana what you have said. We will decide together.”

The warlord nodded, then bent his neck to kiss the top of Pris’ head. “Sala sar, Kalak,” he said quietly.

Richius bid good-night to Voris in the warlord’s own language. “Sala sar, Voris.”

The next morning, Richius awoke early and went in search of Pris. He found her where he had expected, stealing away time in the small room where he had first discovered her, jealously devouring one of the household’s other books, an old Triin manuscript with faded pages. As he had hoped, though, she still had her book of Naren poems with her, and when he asked her to borrow it she handed it to him willingly. He thanked her, promising her she would have it back within the day, and tucked it into his belt beneath his shirt so that no one would see it. He left the tiny room and set out toward the chamber of Voris’ wife, Najjir, where he thought to find Dyana. Dyana was nursing Shani when he knocked on the door. Thankfully, Najjir was nowhere to be found.

Dyana was surprised to see him so early. Her breakfast of rice porridge was still waiting for her. She tucked Shani into her crib, buttoned up her shirt, and made a sour face at Richius.

“You should not have come,” she said. “Someone might have seen you.”

He wanted to tell her he didn’t care, but he contained it with a mischievous grin.

“Can you come with me?” he asked.

“Voris is with Najjir,” whispered Dyana. “You will have to wait to speak to him.”

“I don’t want to talk to Voris. I want to talk to you. Can you leave Shani for a while?”

She glanced at her uneaten breakfast. “Will you wait for me? I have not eaten.”

“This is better than porridge, Dyana. Find somebody to look after Shani. I’ll meet you out in the yard.”

“The yard? Why there?”

“Just meet me outside as soon as you can. Around the back by the statues. Don’t let anyone know where you’re going.”

“All right,” she agreed.

He closed the door and looked about before slipping out of the hall. The yard was deserted except for a pair of tight-lipped guards. He bounded past the warriors and went around toward the rear of the castle where the grass was overgrown and he could hide behind the pitted marble of a ruined statue. There he waited for Dyana.

Minutes ticked away, but eventually she appeared, wearing a pair of thigh-high doeskin boots, perfect for the wasp-infested grasses of the yard.

Good girl,
thought Richius happily.

She came up to him, hazarded a glance over her shoulder, then asked, “What is it, Richius? What is wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” he assured her. “Come with me.”

“Where are we going?”

“Someplace nice.”

He took her hand and led her back toward the rear of the keep, where the grass was even higher. Two days before, he had discovered a small path that meandered through the woods. The path had taken him to a tiny, crystalline brook full of smooth rocks and shiny fish with gemstone eyes. He had spent more than an hour there, perusing his maps and his journal, and wishing he could bring Dyana there with him. Now Voris had given him leave to do so, and a childlike excitement surged through him so that he could hardly keep from breaking into a run as he guided Dyana toward the path. But Dyana hesitated as she saw the trail, stopping at its threshold.

“Oh, no,” she protested. “No, Richius, we cannot.”

“Yes, we can,” he said gently. “I found a place I want you to see. Come on, it isn’t far.”

“But someone might find us, see us together. No, Richius. We must go back.”

“Dyana, trust me. I have something to tell you. When I do you’ll understand. Come with me, please.”

Hesitantly she agreed, letting Richius take her hand and lead her onto the path, which was so narrow only one of them could proceed down it at a time. Over their heads, tree branches weaved into a net spotted with dancing birds, and ahead of them little furry things darted out of their way. Richius cocked his head to listen.

“Hear that?” he asked cheerfully.

Dyana paused. “Water?”

“A brook. I found it the other day when I was exploring the keep. It’s beautiful. I wanted you to see it.”

Annoyance made Dyana’s eyes narrow. “Is that why you brought me out here? Richius, we could be seen.…”

“It’s not just a brook, Dyana. It’s not much further. I’ll explain it to you there.”

Less than ten yards later the path opened up to reveal the brook. A ribbon of sunlight bounced off the water and Dyana gasped. Richius smiled. It was prettier than he remembered it. They skirted the muddy bank, using the flat stones along its side as a bridge and coming to rest in a sunny clearing. The sounds of the bubbling brook filled their ears. Near the water was a large rock, perfect for resting on. Long ago someone had carved a word into it; a name, Richius supposed. He showed it to Dyana, who laughed when she read it.

“What does it say?” asked Richius.

“It says Najjir,” Dyana giggled. She traced a finger over it. “It must be very old.”

“It must be,” agreed Richius. “I can’t imagine her carving her name into a rock now. She’s so …” He tried to think of something inoffensive. “Strict.”

“You do not know her, Richius. She is not as you believe. She is only different. You are used to Naren woman. Najjir is Drol. And she helped me care for you, remember.”

“I remember,” said Richius. “And I’m grateful.” He dusted off the rock with his palm and bid Dyana to sit. “Now I’ve something else to show you.”

Dyana dropped down onto the stone and looked up at him. “What?”

“This,” he said, and reached under his shirt to retrieve the book. He held it out for Dyana. “Do you recognize it? It belongs to Pris.”

“Her book of poems,” said Dyana. “Yes, I remember. How did you get it?”

Richius rifled through the pages until he found the poem he wanted, then handed her the book. “Here,” he said. “Read that.”

Dyana took the book and read the poem aloud. When she was done her eyes lingered on the page for a long moment.

“How did you get this?”

“Pris left it for me last night when I went down to talk to
Voris. It was in my chamber when I returned. Voris wanted me to see it.”

“Gods,” Dyana swore. “Then he does know.…”

“Dyana, don’t worry.” Richius took her hand and held it. “I spoke to him about it. It’s all right. You won’t believe what he said to me!”

“Do I want to hear?”

“This you do. Voris knows all about us. He knows how we feel.” He looked deep into her eyes, now filled with such enormous apprehension, and said, “He wants us to be together.”

Dyana blinked, then reared back. “What?”

“Isn’t that amazing?” The thrill of the news made him bubble like the brook. “It’s true, Dyana, I swear. He told me so himself, last night. He wants us to be together!”

“But why?” asked Dyana, still shocked. “Why would he say such a thing? I am married!”